the hills blue and red
by leidilaurens
Summary: / Maybe it's because when Jack turns sometimes he has to stop himself from screaming, his hands clawing at his closed up throat. He thinks of the thump-thump, the steady beat of heart. His boy's voice counting on french, une, deux, trois, quatre…/ Jack's problems consist of: his father's shifty behavior, his mother's death and the wisp of a boy who won't just leave him alone.


**AN: title is from 'john, my beloved' by sufjan stevens. hey, guys this is the first installment for the "oh, can't wait to see you again" 'verse. please tell me what you think about this, if i should continue it or not.**

 **come talk to me at my tumblr: leidilaurens comments = more fics to come!**

 **thanks for reading 3! (crossposted on ao3)**

Jack wakes up gasping sometimes. Chest tight, his throat closing up. The image of his father's blazing eyes burning into his mind.

Some days the image sneaks up on him, crawling, creeping around himself. Wrapping itself into him, close, too close, pushing into his brain, it doesn't let him—

(Sometimes he can't breathe, _une, dos, three,_ his mind whispers.)

The image shows up at the most unexpected of moments, Jack could turn and he would see, his father's contorted, angry face, eyes burning, features pinched. Jack could turn and the lines between what's real and what isn't, what's there and what's not, would blur.

(Sometimes Jack thinks that most of his life is a series of blurs; shadows creeping in the corners, flashes of violet eyes, the feeling of a breath, a body pressing close, a whisper, _my dear_ —)

Thinking of his father doesn't bring back good memories,—an angry snarl, burning eyes, a scathing comment in his lips,— but it doesn't exactly bring bad memories forth. Maybe it's because half of his life is composed by a series of blurring uncertainties, but maybe if he thinks hard enough, he can remember a dimpled smile, his father's eyes lightening up in a with a different kind of fire, the flame flickering, burning brightly, unwavering.

Sometimes Jack wonders what happened, sometimes he wonders if it was even real at all.

Barb says that sometimes he's too serious for his own good. And maybe it's a good thing, because Father would like it even less, because after all, "My dear boy wasn't too fond of jokes anyways—"

(A shrouded face, blurry, frowning. "Was that a- were you jesting, dear?"

Jack remembers feeling kind of sad then, leaning forward to hug a smaller body, "Nah.")

Barb, smiles confused, her light eyes shifting. Jack cuts himself off hurriedly, before he can _reveal more than necessary—_ the sudden needy urge to look around, just if anyone has _seen_ , confuses and frightens him.

Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough until he draws blood, Jack looks at the other side. "Uh, yeah. It's nothing Barb, I just didn't sleep well last night."

Barb frowns, looks like she wants to say something. If Jack didn't know better, he'd think she wanted to give him a hug or ask him if he's fine. But that's bullshit, he and Barb hadn't gotten along in years, he doesn't even know why she's talking to him all of a sudden. Then she sighs, and says: "You haven't been sleeping again?" in a disappointed kind of way.

What's gotten into Barb, thinking she can worry for him like a mother should? Why is she being all so fussy and kind now? Why not before? He thinks of all the times his father has thrown insults around, blue eyes looking down at him. Subtly talking about maids and immigrants and how they don't belong here, that they should go back to Mexico, even though he knows perfectly Jack's mom was from Puerto Rico. His father has always been in swirling conflict with himself: bashing the world of the one woman he claims he loved and keeping a small portrait of her in the hallway next to his office; boasting about Jack's position in the soccer team, his high grades in science, but he looks at him sometimes like a virus he can't seem to get rid of.

Barb's still staring at him. Jack bits back a sigh. If P—Barb wants to be the kind sister she should have been before, well, it's too late now.

"It's none of your business Barb," he snaps, feeling angry all of a sudden.

Barb's brows furrow, like she's in the middle of an unusual situation. Then her face contorts in an angry frown, she scoffs, standing up abruptly: "Fuck off, Jack. You are so stupid, making it all seem like your life's shit and it's not. You've got a big house and a girlfriend you treat like shit and dad cares too, you just don't see it. He's always preferred you Jo— okay? I don't give a damn whether you choose to believe it or not." Jack bit the inside of his mouth. What a joke. "Well, then stop being a baby and grow up." She glares at him, her face flushed in anger, he's never seen her like this before, but there's also a glint in her eyes he recognizes. Stomach curling, he turns away, feeling emptier than before. "Just leave it, Bárbara."

She turns angrily and stalks to the stairs, before muttering so softly that he barely hears it: "Go to hell Jacky, and that boy of yours too."

And goes to her room, leaving Jack more confused than ever.

There's a hand ghosting in his cheek, he closes his eyes. _Not now,_ he thinks frustratedly, but then there's a thought, almost like an scolding a parent might give to a child, from nowhere: _You know I never liked to take things for granted. And you did not either._

(Jack wonders from where are those thoughts coming from sometimes.)

That night he finds himself curled in his bed, freckled cheek against the pillow, while he mouths those words for hours, and next morning, he picks all his pens and doodle absentmindedly the words in the back of his wrist, he thinks, _mine, mine, mine_ — _my dear boy_.

(He's never felt so right before to have something just for himself.)

At the breakfast table his father peers at him cautiously, his eyes burning with dislike. Even though Pat—Barb may say it a thousand times, he knows his dad's heart is more likely buried in the a cemetery, curled around Mariana Lourier. Jack notices abruptly that he's looking at his arms, where scribbled from the tips of his fingers, waving along the fading freckles there, to the curve of his elbow, a million of times the words: my dear boy.

Shifting he begins to roll up his sleeves, even though he doesn't want to, but his dad's staring more intently now and he's never liked it when Jack scribbles things in his skin. Still, he stares at them while he stretches his sweater's sleeves, somehow those three little words, bring an unfamiliar warm that starts pooling at his belly, climbing up along his chest. A strange feeling, he might compare it at the way he feels when his father glares at him— very small, throat closing up, stomach leaving his body,— but it's not unpleasant, it's like looking at something so bright you know you might go blind, so big you feel very small in comparison, but you just can't look away.

He fiddles with the hems of his sweater, trying not to look at his father.

 _Don't speak_ , Jack reminds himself. _Keep your mouth shut._

 _Ahh_ , croons his violet eyed boy, his voice a pout, _but do I love hearing you speak!_

Jack ignores him. But of course, he doesn't even have to think it does he? It's always been like this, only his father gets to initiate a conversation, then he can speak.

(Barb's always been smart enough to keep her mouth shut when she wants to, so he doesn't worry. Hadrian learned it the hard way, Jack's thankful the bruises in his arms have already faded, though, he notes bitterly, his haven't yet.)

(It scares him sometimes seeing Paola blabbering to his father every five seconds, puts him on edge. She's small and naive, her heart's in the right place, but Jack's scared one day she might say something that'll tick his father off, and he might not be there to catch her as she falls.)

It's always the same things that tick him off. Things that make the corner of his mouth twist, a dark expression crawling to his eyes.

Jack swallows, his hands are shaking, so he pushes them in his lap quickly, to try to stop the trembling. It doesn't work, there's flash of red, crimson exploding at the back of his mind, a pair of mauve eyes, an open mouthed kiss at the curve of his throat—

At the end of table his father is chatting quietly with Paola, who preens at the attention, her small face lightening up. At his side Barb stirs her tea, her lips are pursed in an odd moment of jealousy.

Paola is a strange addition to the house, but not an unwelcome one. There's something softer in his father's eyes when he looks at her, his eyes almost fond.

(Jack wonders what's like to watch his father's eyes light up, his lip curling up in a smile, only for him. Maybe he doesn't want to know. He tries to convince himself that he doesn't need it.)

She's twelve, quiet and quite sweet. Big, hazel eyes, a little nervous familiar grin. Dark curls spilling over her cheeks, tan skin with a myriad of freckles. And if he didn't know better, Jack would've pegged her for a long lost sister, because standing at each other's side they looked like they had been siblings all their lives. But you know actually considering his dad had Jack with one of his maids, it couldn't be too far off.

(Sometimes he stays thinking about her eyes, round, hazel with little flecks of green. Jack's mind blurs, tries to pull an image, _Jacky love_ —)

The first time he'd seen her was a little after his mom died, she'd been younger than him for five years, wild hair sticking out, a bruise on her cheek, two duffel bags stuffed with her clothes, holding the hand of a social worker. His father had softened there, his eyes gleaming.

Until now he'll always wonder why. When did his father find her? How did he find her? Why is she here? Why, why, why.

Because his father's always hated orphans, always hated the kids in the foster system. He calls them "troublemakers" and "attention seekers", which is not fair, but still he's always muttered those things about Jack, too, so he feels a little kinship towards them. Because is not their fault they don't have parents who can take care of them, it's not their fault that maybe their dad's very angry and got out of control or that their mom's buried a hundred feet under. Of course his dad's always seen them with a curious resentment, like they've done something irreparable they can never make right again. Why? But he still adopted Paola, after fostering her for seven months?

Why? Maybe he'll never know.

(Jack can't help but love her, of course. She's his sister, so he loves her as much as he loves Barb and Hadrian, even though they tend to fight all the time. And he loves her which means his dear boy knows about her, too. He walks in sometimes, violet eyes glinting with something akin to amusement, peering at the girl curiously, hums loudly and says in his ear: "She sure is prettier in person, don't you think so, my dear? Pity we were never introduced.")

Paola's becomes his sister then, just like Barb is. Even though they are half-half. Just like Hadrian, his second cousin, is kind of like his little annoying brother. And his father seems to like them better the naiver they are, so naturally, young spirited Paola is his favorite. And he gives them nicknames too, his father calls Paola, Polly sometimes, Barb gets to be called Patsy some days. Hadrian snickers at the way Jack's father calls him Harry.

(Jack doesn't get a nickname, but that's fine anyways.)

The day Paola had crossed over the door, a hopeful look in her face, his father's mouth had curled up in a smile, and, it hurt, he had seen Barb's scared gaze, Hadrian's pursed lips, it hurt, because his father had looked at Paola like he'd finally found the missing puzzle piece, eyes sparkling. But then he'd turned, that softness is gone, his face all sharp edges, unforgiving and cold.

"Jackson," his father speaks up, he tries really hard not to wince. "What _are_ you wearing boy? What have I told you about those stupid sweaters? And why are you wearing your hair in that ridiculous bun…" and he drones on and on.

Out of tendency Jack blocks the sound of his voice. At his left, Barb shoots him something akin to a sympathetic glance and a furious glare at once, but says nothing, hiding her face behind her cup of tea. Hadrian, munches his toast boredly, his eyes glazed over. At the end of the table, Paola hums happily, as she spreads butter in her toast, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room.

It seems glaring is all he can do. And his father keeps talking, his voice a bored drawl, his lips forming a sneer. _Maybe,_ he thinks, _if I glare hard enough—_

Jack stops himself, the last time he thought if he did something hard enough, tried hard enough, pushed himself to—

It didn't work.

Here's a memory: When his mom used to go on trips, she'd look for all the kids of the house and give them a hug. And before she left to catch a plane, she'd look at Jack, smile and say in a low voice: "Remember Jackson, be a good little boy, alright? Take care of Barbarita and Hadri, fine?" Then she'd crouch in front of him, lean close. "Don't go looking for trouble. _¡No me busques, porque me vas a encontrar!_ " she used to say warningly, a glint in her eyes that told him she'd be mad if he got into any mess.

Jack remembered laughing then, but heeding the warning and wrapping it around his heart like someone might do with a ribbon. "Sure, mom," he'd say grinning.

¡No me busques, porque me vas a encontrar! Don't go looking for me, cause you're going to find me!

She'd say that before every trip, her lips pursed, oddly nervous, but then she'd relax and make him promise to be good for his dad and in school and leave with an easy, thin lipped smile in her face.

Jack actually knew a little bit of Spanish, so he knew that phrase was not to be taken literally, it essentially meant: Watch out, don't push your luck. Something a parent might tell their kids so they behave. But when he was little he didn't know that. He'd go around the house, peeking at the closets and walking though his mom's room, softly calling out for her, because that's what she'd said right? Look for me and you're gonna find me? So he looked and looked, and then she'd came back from her trip, and Jack would cry because he always missed her when she was gone.

(Jack had looked for her all over the house while she was in the hospital, growing thinner and paler everyday. Jack had roamed all the those, softly calling out her name, while a handful of guests clad in black where over spouting empty words that didn't matter anyway.)

Jack had looked everywhere, because she had promised. He'd been childish and stupid.

"Your mother is gone, Jackson. Stop it, you are not a child anymore," his father's words burned in his mind.

Barb had teared up when she found him roaming the house, hands shaking and cheeks pale. She missed her too, she had said. But it wasn't her mother that was gone so suddenly. His father had stared at him with a indescribable look on his face, hugged him stiffly and sent him to his room.

(They have never talked about the hug, just like they never talked about his mother, either.)

Jack now knows it was stupid to get so hung up on a stupid phrase.

Remembering his mother is hard, for him it takes a hundred of kind words to keep from crumbling. Jack's mom was the closest person to him, back then. Not Barb, who didn't to understand why Jack and his mom were different, and why did her brother have a different mom than hers. Sometimes Jack would look at her blue eyes, the corn colored hair that looked white against the glare of the sun, and felt envy bubble, but he stamped it down, because it wouldn't do to be jealous of his sister. After all his mother loved him and Barb the same, even though Barb wasn't hers. And Barb never said anything against her, she loved her with the same ferociousness Jack loved her. Now Jack realizes maybe it was because she didn't have a mother herself.

(Or maybe it was because Mariana Lourier may have been a simple maid, but she was _there_ and she healed all Barb's scraped knees and tears, even though she had no obligation to do so.)

Jack's mom was the closest person in his life, back then, because no one else understood. His life's always been filled with shadows and memories, and his mother would hold him tight and soothe him. When people sneered at them in the church or when he would come home in tears, a angry and confused Barb behind him. When his father would scream until his face went pale and he locked himself in his study, leaving little Hadrian in tears, Barb and Jack scared and furious. His mother was always there.

"I love you, Jack," she says in his memories. Still sometimes he doubts. Because his mother had made promises she never kept, so why should he believe her?

"Everything's gonna be alright, _mijo_ ," she mutters against his hair, while he shakes in his bed. "We're going to be just fine, you'll see." But the flashes of crimson in the back of his mind, the wisps of auburn curled around a pale face, they won't go away.

(But if fine means her buried a hundred feet under; his father bitter and heartless; Barb, fake and harsh; Hadrian, empty and cocky; Paola too naive and too close to her fall; and Jack, himself lost and scared, then he doesn't want it.)

Jack doubts, and maybe it's because of his father's harsh words, his flaming eyes; of his sister's grin, too stretched wide, empty eyes, a copy of his father's. Maybe it's because of all his mother's _we'll be fine_ s that never seem to come true.

 _(Empty eyes_ , his dear boy's voice croons, _empty words._ The curl of a lip. _The eyes are the windows of the soul, Jack._

Jack bits his lip, brow furrowing _. Mmh, Powers? Right, the greek dude?_

 _Hah,_ a hand hovers over his curls, a cheek pressed against his _, mistaken once more. Shakespeare, dearest.)_

Maybe it's because his mother's words, her "I love you"s, the shape of her face is like a long dragged on, faded picture. Maybe it's because sometimes when he turns, catching a glimpse of light, when he knows what's going to happen—

(Maybe it's because when he turns sometimes he has to stop himself from screaming, hands claw at his closed up throat. Jack thinks of the thump-thump, the steady beat of heart. His voice counting on french, _une, deux, trois, quatre…_ )

Or maybe, he thinks, it's like that time he came down the stairs, sleep deprived, he turned and—

Sitting slumped on the kitchen table, his hands cradling a glass. Jack's father looks uncharacteristically frazzled, a mess; bloodshot eyes peering at him, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass, the amber liquid swirls in his mind.

An uncomfortable silence, Jack shuffles his feet, doesn't look up.

"Hullo," his father croaks, voice scratchy. The light's been turned on, he notices suddenly. The light hitting his face, turning Jack's hair a half faded corn yellow, causing him to squint to see his father better.

"Father," Jack begins hesitantly, but he cuts him off. His face looks red, sickly, his words slurred, real.

"Jacky," his heart stops, dimly, Jack hears his violet eyed boy stop near him. There's the thump-thump of a heart that's not there. The lip of his father curl upwards, with a start Jack realizes he's smiling— he's smiling _at him_ , half lidded eyes watching him almost fondly. "Go to sleep, boy."

Jack nods quickly, face tight, and runs all the way back to his room. That night his dreams are a series of flashes of his father yelling, enraged face creeping up to his— His soft gaze, an uncomfortable frown, a weak laugh, his hands ruffling his hair and— "Atta boy, Jacky!"

(He has never called him Jacky before.)

No one's ever called him that, he thinks panicky. Then Jack hears him shifting behind himself a hand reaching to tuck a curl under his ear. A whisper, "Not true, Jacky love."

That night Jack curls unto himself, thinking of his mother. She'd had blonde hair, right? Green eyes, that's where the little flecks of green come from, maybe? Perhaps freckles? Or maybe not?

He shuts his eyes, thinking, _mom, mom, mom_. Like if he thinks hard enough an image will appear.

 _Mom, mom, mom,_ like a loop.

("Please, mom, mom," he'd croaked once, laying on a hill, screams everywhere.)

Jack can't help but to think, _help me, mom, mom, ma, ma_ , then—

 _Mama_ , he thinks, slow and sweet and right. And it's like she's _there,_ haunting his present, just like his violet eyed boy. Jack can feel her hands in his hair, she smells like strawberries, the scent of old paper, a burning candle. An image: A grinning woman, dark curls against her cheek, holding out a bunch of flowers to him, she's saying something but—

His mother had honey eyes, blonde curled locks. Jack remembers her thin lipped smile when she looked at Barb and Hadrian and him. But if Jack blinks, thinks deeply, he remembers bluebell eyes, a freckled cheek against his, curly brown hair, a dimpled grin.

Maybe that's what's worst part of turning and _seeing_. Not knowing what he's going to see this time around. Those memories crawl all over him, sinking into his body.

Viciously, he thinks as it creeps, crawling over to himself, blurring the edges, his father's dark, dark eyes, a thin smile that belongs to his mother, or the soft gaze of his mama, it all mixes together with a loud laugh, a beckoning voice.

And it isn't real, it isn't real. _It's not,_ Jack thinks. They aren't real, the memories, the shadow of a violet eyed man, crooning in his ear sweetly.

"It isn't real," says his reflection, pale, withdrawn, in the mirror every morning.

Jack rolls over his bed, rustling the sheets. "It isn't real, it's false," he insists to the ceiling at two a.m., hands trembling at his sides.

"I'm faking it," he repeats after an argument with his father. "I'm… I- I'm faking it," but the more he says those words, that don't roll off easily of his tongue, not like—

 _No, don't think about that,_ panic invades his mind. But the more he says those words, the more he feels they aren't true. Because Jack can hear him at night, following his every move with his eyes, that are dark violet, with flickers of mauve, blue and silver and a burning passion sealed unto them.

"My dear," he starts, his non existent breath tickling the back of your neck. You shiver, twist around, try to lean close. "We know each other better than anyone else dares to. You, m'dear, are not as foolish as to pretend your endeavor would go unnoticed."

Jack shifts a little, it's like he can feel him, like he's real, _like he's really here_ , a part of his mind whispers.

Weakly, he whispers, "You don't, you're not—"

An amused laugh. "Real? My dear love, you know me so well, so you should know," he leans closer, a weight dipping Jack's bed, a warm body pressed close, "that I am real and will fight for what I want."

His voice makes Jack's gut curl unto itself, a hundred of butterflies fluttering inside. Blood rushes to his face, his cheek is pressed to his: "And you are what I want, my dear Laurens."

Jack feels something snap. Falling apart, crumbling to dust, little pieces fluttering in his skin, he closes his eyes. There's flashes of red, blood in the sky, a blank facing staring blankly up at him. A hundred of bullets flying through the sky, waving around— Barb's, _no_ , not Bárbara, it's Martha, his little sister, a grin etched on her face—

Laughing loudly, the hot burn of alcohol pooling at his belly, a pair of violet eyes, a crooked smirk, beckoning. A pale faced girl, hands curled around her middle. A sinking feeling in his gut, _no, dear God please._ He turns, glass in hand, Jack's boy, his hair is the loveliest shade of auburn. A man babbling in French, wild hair in a ponytail. _Gil,_ Jack thinks warmly. And he's too drunk to care, so he leans close to his boy, breath ghosting over his neck. Flashes of red, a hundred of dark faced men stand before him, he runs, runs and runs—

A bang, a pain in his side, hundreds of raging voices screaming, the smell of dust. The neigh of horse, a stampede of animals and men. All this for a little bit of rice? He's alone, he's alone, they've abandoned him— Curling against the grassy mud, thinking, my dear boy. Painting the hills blue, Jack's eyes wide open crying out, his side a mangled piece of crimson, a broken cry.

Jack thinks faintly, _Perhaps with death I can atone for all my wrongs._ His face, crooning, sharp, near blurs in and out of his mind, the likes of freckles scattered on his cheeks. Maybe atone, but not regret. _Not him,_ he thinks, _I'll never regret him._

Burying his face at his pillow, he's bitten his lip until it bleeds. Jack's hands grip, squeeze his sheets, pressing as his knuckles turn white. Faintly, he notices his boy is still there, crooning. But he's not his boy anymore now is he? He is his—

"Alexander," Jack Bell whispers, a broken sigh. A relieved smile spreading across his face, his lip is still bleeding. But his heart skips a beat, and John Laurens is alive once more. "My dear boy, my dear Alexander."


End file.
